by Jack Gantos
“Okay,” I said. “But you can’t tell anyone what I say.”
“Doctors aren’t allowed to tell secrets,” she said and crossed her heart. She pointed up at the kitchen clock. “Meet me at three, in my room.”
I took a bite of toast and nodded.
Later, Pete and I hunted for mangoes in the trees up behind Mr. Hill’s store. Along the way, I told him about my dream.
“I had one, too,” he said. “I told Mom and she said it was from watching too many horror movies.”
“That’s it?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Makes sense to me.”
After I ate a pile of mangoes, I fell asleep under a shade tree and slept as soundly as BoBo II. I missed my three o’clock appointment with Betsy and woke up feeling better already. Pete was right. I was watching too many horror movies. I just needed sleep.
That evening Dad asked if we wanted to watch Mr. Branch locate Captain Kidd’s pirate treasure. Pete and I kicked each other under the table. “When?” I blurted out.
“Really?” Betsy asked. “Where?”
“Sandy Lane,” Dad replied. “Captain Winston Ward claims he has information that the treasure was buried there.”
“Does he have a map?” I asked.
“The question should be: Does he have a brain?” Dad replied. “Imagine if you were a pirate. Would you bury your treasure on the beach? Of course not. You’d carry it inland and bury it where the shoreline wouldn’t be shifted by strong tides and storms. Then you’d kill all the men who dug the holes, so they could never tell anyone. And, finally, you’d never make a map that someone could get their hands on. You’d keep it all in your head.”
That made sense. He must have given this a lot of thought. “Then why is Mr. Branch doing it?” I asked.
“Money,” Dad said. “Captain Ward said he’d give him half the treasure if he finds it.”
“Wow,” I said. Mr. Branch and I thought alike.
When we arrived at Sandy Lane the beach was laid out like a chessboard. Captain Ward had strung twine around pegs in the sand to mark out boxes three feet square. He had a map inside a folder that he kept checking. He wouldn’t let anyone else see it. Mr. Branch sat in a lawn chair with his suitcase by his feet. He stared straight out at the horizon over the ocean and didn’t pay attention to what was going on around him. He held a small Bible in his large hand and twirled it like a coin between his fingers.
After Captain Ward finished laying out his grid, he walked up to Mr. Branch and touched his shoulder. “We’re ready for you,” he said.
Mr. Branch slipped the Bible into his pocket, leaned forward, and opened his suitcase. He separated the divining rod from the rags and stood. He walked over to the left-hand corner of the grid, held out the rod with his fingertips, and stepped forward. I could hear the sand crunch beneath his leather shoes. No one made a sound. The waves crashed on the shore. The birds squawked. The sea-grape trees rustled their leaves, which were as round and wide as human faces. Mr. Branch marched on.
He reached the end of the first row, turned, and started down another. The divining rod didn’t dip an inch. When he reached the end of the third row, he lowered the tip of the rod and stuck it into the sand. The crowd came to life with little “Aahs” and “Oohs,” but just for a moment. Mr. Branch was only resting. He pulled out his big white handkerchief and wiped his face. Afterward, he picked up the rod and marched onward.
“He can’t find it,” I said to Pete. “He can’t feel it.”
“Yes, he can,” he replied.
“Wanna bet?”
“Whatever’s in my pockets against what’s in yours,” Pete said.
“You’re on.” Mine were empty.
Just then Mr. Branch tripped over a twine marker and pitched forward. I heard the rod snap as he hit the ground. So did everyone else.
“Well, the show’s over,” said Mr. Steamer. He was a rich drunk with a nose the size of a red potato. Dad had built a bar for him in his garage.
Mr. Branch hopped up and brushed the sand off his pants. He inspected the broken rod, then quickly split it in half across his knee. He whipped the pieces end over end into the ocean. A yellow dog chased after them.
“Maybe the dog’ll find the treasure,” Mr. Steamer cracked.
“You!” Mr. Branch said, pointing at me. “Fetch my suitcase.”
I was the closest one to it and had been thinking about taking a peek in it when his back was turned. I picked the case up by the handle and walked across the sand. It was light. I carefully stepped over the strings and held it out for him. He set it on the sand, flipped it open, and removed a second rod.
“Wow,” I said.
When he looked up, our eyes locked. “It’s not the rod,” he said. “The power is in the man. Always remember that. The rod is just the needle on the compass. It’s just a tool in the hands of power. Now go.”
I turned and ran, with the bulky suitcase slapping against my thigh. I was out of breath when I reached Pete. Just then the crowd went wild. I looked over my shoulder. Mr. Branch was on his knees with the rod half sunk into the sand. He raised his free hand up over his head and smiled out at us like a matador who has just plunged his sword through the neck of a charging bull. He staggered up, then tramped the ground with his shoe. “Dig here,” he called out. “I feel a powerful attraction.”
Before he finished walking the entire grid, he located two more digging spots.
“The treasure must be scattered,” Pete said.
“That makes sense,” I said. “Spread it out, put it in different holes.” Pirates were smart. They didn’t want old geezers like Mr. Steamer finding their stuff.
“I won the bet,” Pete reminded me.
“Which pocket?” I asked.
He thought it over. “Left,” he said.
I turned my empty left pocket inside out. “Take it all,” I said, and laughed.
“No fair,” he whined. He grabbed the pocket and pulled.
“Let go,” I yelled and swatted at him.
He held on to it like a mad dog with a bone. Suddenly there was a big ripping sound and he fell backward on his butt, holding the little piece of pocket cloth in his hands.
“Don’t let Mom see that,” I said. I reached over and grabbed my pocket out of his hand.
Captain Ward marched across the beach, waving his arms for attention. “Everyone, clear out!” he shouted. “We’re gonna bring in lights and heavy equipment and dig through the night. We’ll need some privacy when we find it.” Then he smiled. “There might still be some pirates among us.”
“I’m hot,” Mom said. “Let’s get a cool drink.”
“I’m for that,” Dad chipped in.
We walked the short distance to the Sandy Lane Beach Hotel. A steel band was setting up. “You kids stay out on the patio,” Mom said. “We’ll send out Cokes.”
Betsy frowned. She hated being treated like a kid.
“The lounge is too fancy for children,” Mom explained. “We won’t be long.” She leaned forward and kissed Betsy on the cheek. Pete ran over and got his kiss. I lined up for mine. “My God,” Mom said with a sigh. “I’m only going to be twenty feet away.”
As the sun went down, the steel band started up. The pan drums sounded like musical rain.
Betsy grabbed my hand. “Let’s dance,” she said.
“Is this some kind of trick?”
“No. I just love this dance floor.”
“Me too,” I said.
Dad had built the dance floor. It was made of pink-and-gray terrazzo stone that was all swirly like a giant hoopskirt spinning around. But the best part was the underground spotlights. Cemented into the surface of the terrazzo were thick glass moons and stars.
“The lights,” I yelled to Pete over the music. I pointed to the switch mounted on a palm tree. He ran over and flicked it on. Suddenly moons and stars shined up into the sky like the Bat signal.
Betsy had me dancing in circles until I was dizzy and weak
. “You missed your mental-health appointment with me,” she said as she reeled me in.
So she did have more on her mind than just dancing. “I forgot,” I said breathlessly as she spun me around.
“Forgetting is the first sign of mental illness,” she said and whipped me across the floor by the wrist. She hauled me back in. “Zelda Fitzgerald was a schizoid who tried to dance her way back to mental health.”
“Zelda who?” I blurted out. “Do we know her?”
“Maybe you’re not a nut,” she said. “Maybe you’re just hopelessly stupid.” She pushed me away and I tripped over a potted palm and plunged into the croton hedge. I landed on my stomach and spit up some Coke on my hand. I had to wipe it off on my little piece of ripped pocket.
What am I? I asked myself. Sick? Stupid? Or insane?
It was Monday and I was back at school, slumped down in my seat. I was exhausted. That nightmare had returned. As soon as I fell asleep, I was paralyzed. My French doors opened and a boy entered the room. I tried to move but couldn’t. His face was a blur. He reached for my hands. I tried to scream. Instead, I stopped breathing. I knew it couldn’t be true, but I thought I held my breath for the rest of the night.
Usually, Monday meant a lecture on how we didn’t study enough, followed by a killer quiz. But this Monday was different. Mr. Cucumber started the day by handing out copies of a photograph of Wade Block. He looked exactly like the drawing I’d made. I thought of my grandfather’s story about the double and I got goose bumps again. Maybe I should reschedule the appointment with Betsy, I thought. She knows a lot more than I do. I suddenly felt wide awake.
“This boy has been missing for an entire week,” Mr. Cucumber said. “Do any of you know something about him?”
I raised my hand.
“Yes, Henry?”
“His bicycle is missing,” I said. “He was last seen at the Rockley Movie Theatre.”
“Any fool who reads the paper knows that,” he replied harshly. “Do you know anything new about him? Have you seen him?”
I didn’t tell him I had seen him in my mind and that I had drawn a picture of him. And that ever since he was missing I was haunted by a nightmare and was being driven insane. After his reply to the first answer I gave him, I figured if I told Mr. Cucumber what was really on my mind he’d turn the whole class against me.
“There is a reward for finding the boy,” continued Mr. Cucumber. “If you know anything, tell your parents and call the police. And,” he stressed, “if you do find him and get the reward, I expect you to donate it to the school.”
Everyone groaned. Yeah, I thought. So we can hire a teacher instead of a jailer.
He placed the photograph down on his desk and picked up his math book. “Now,” he boomed. “Let us review our metric tables.”
During lunch I snuck around to the back of the school building. There was an empty swimming pool in the shape of Barbados. At one time it must have been beautiful. Now it was filled with dried leaves and dirt and little balled-up pieces of notebook paper. I opened my lunch bag and pulled out a small divining rod. Actually, it was a slingshot, but I had taken off the rubber straps. Still, it was the same Y shape. As Mr. Branch had said to me, “The rod is just the needle on the compass. The true power is in the man.” If that was the case, I could make a rod out of a wire coat hanger. But if Mr. Branch used wood, I’d use wood. I figured he hadn’t told me everything he knew in one sentence.
I walked down the pool steps into the shallow end, which was at the bottom of the island. I closed my eyes and concentrated. I had used a Ouija board before and thought I should ask a question, then discover the answer as I walked. “Wade Block, where are you?” I murmured. I held the rod out in front of me like Mr. Branch and took a step forward. I slowly marched up the island into the deep end. I turned and marched back. I didn’t feel any downward tug. I asked the question again. “Where are you?” I rolled my eyes up into my head and paced up the middle of the island. Nothing. I turned, and as I walked back, I felt my hands jerk downward, just like getting a strike on a fishing rod. It scared me so much I yelped and jumped into the air.
When I landed, I stared down at the spot which was marked by the shadow of the rod. With my shoe I kicked away the leaves. Castle Rock was painted on the bottom. It was a tiny town on the edge of the Castle sugarcane plantation. Maybe he was kidnapped and hidden up there. It was pretty remote. Or maybe he was injured and no one could find him. I could save him. I’d be a hero. Then everyone would know that I had the power and I could start charging for finding stuff.
I went back to the classroom and studied the wall map. I took out my diary and wrote down the roads I’d have to take, then left the room before Mr. Cucumber returned and quizzed me on kilometers, sea-level elevations, latitude and longitude. He was always thinking up ways to use real life for test questions.
After school I decided to take the west coast road up the island and stop in at Sandy Lane to see if Mr. Branch had located Captain Kidd’s treasure.
I rode right up to the beach and walked my bike along the sand. Mr. Branch was standing on the edge of one of the holes while mindlessly twirling that little Bible through his fingers like a magician. All the lights and digging equipment were gone. Next to the NO TRESPASSING sign was a tourist with a metal detector. Mr. Branch sneered at him.
“How’d it go?” I asked.
He turned and recognized me. “Witness it with your own eyes,” he said sadly.
I looked down into the hole. The sides were lined with plywood and shored up with two-by-fours to keep the loose sand from caving in. It was about fifty feet deep and half filled with water.
“Saltwater,” he said. “It’s like rubbing salt in a wound. This is a puzzlement to me. This is the first time I haven’t found what I’m looking for. I guess God didn’t mean for me to find a treasure that was ill-gained. I guess that was it. For punishment he took my power away.”
I looked down into the other two holes. There was nothing but water. “Maybe you’re just really good at finding water,” I said, trying to sound positive.
“Not so,” he replied. “I’m a finder. I find things. Anything. Like that missing boy. I’m going to find him for the family. God will restore my power when I put it to good use.”
“I read about him in the paper,” I said. I pulled the picture out of my pocket and unfolded it. “We got this in school. There’s a reward.”
“Reward?” he asked. “How much?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
He lifted the paper out of my hand and stared at Wade Block. He closed his eyes and placed the palm of his hand on Wade’s face. He threw his head back and concentrated on something only he could see. “What do you know about this?” he asked and stared down at me with his wide eyes bugged out like a horror-movie madman. “Tell me!” He put his hand on my shoulder. “I feel that you know something.”
“Nothing,” I replied. I backed away from him. “I don’t know any more than you do.”
“You’re lying,” he snapped.
I couldn’t tell him about the drawing and the nightmare. “I have to go,” I said.
“Well, I have to find him,” he insisted, and poked himself so hard in the chest I thought he was going to knock himself backward into the hole. “I must prove I’ve got my power back. That Captain Ward called me a fraud. He can’t call me that. God gave me the power to find things. If he calls me a fraud, it’s like calling God a fraud.” He was shouting.
I turned and picked up my bike. “Good luck,” I said. I walked to the road and took off for Castle Rock. I glanced over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t following me like some fiendish stalker with a machete the length of my arm. But he wasn’t that kind of a stalker. What really scared me about him was the same thing that scared me about Betsy. That both of them could just look at me and see into my own mind, spy on my thoughts and feelings, and read me like a book.
I wanted to know if I had the power to see and feel thi
ngs that other people could not. Once I ordered a pair of those X-ray glasses advertised in comic books. But they were fake. I couldn’t see anything past my nose. Even back then I knew I couldn’t get power from a gimmick. Power was drawing that boy’s face in my diary before I saw the photograph. I hadn’t figured out what the nightmare meant yet.
I pedaled as hard as I could against the traffic. The roads were narrow, and every time a car passed by, the wind pushed me toward the open gutters. If I fell in, I’d crash and be covered with sewage. I passed rows of wooden chattel houses and hotels. I continued up past Alleynes Bay, Read’s Bay, and Mullins Bay. I looked at my watch. I was making good time. If I found the kid I’d be a hero and wouldn’t have to worry about when I got home. If I didn’t find him, I’d have to pedal like a fiend to get back in time for dinner.
At Speightstown I turned up Highway 1 toward Castle Rock. There was less traffic, but the roads were steep and uneven. The cane was low. Without water the crop was stunted. At Portland Plantation I stopped by a store and drank from the tap. It tasted rusty. I was tired but didn’t have time to rest. I hopped on my bike and kept going. After Diamond Corner I took a left toward Castle Plantation. Castle Rock was a town made out of old slave quarters. I pulled over and stopped. I reached into my backpack and took out the little divining rod and held it in my hands. “Wade Block,” I murmured. “I’m here to find you. Speak to me.”
I waited a moment. Nothing. “Speak to me,” I said. Nothing happened. I put the rod away. Then I headed into Castle Rock. There was only one road. “Speak to me,” I whispered. I waved to an old couple sitting on a porch. They waved back. Then I saw the boy. Someone had painted the image of a soccer player on the side of an aboveground water tank. But they had only painted his outline in big white brush strokes. A number 8 was painted on his chest. The soccer ball was at the tip of his foot. The face was a white smudge, as if someone had painted a face they didn’t like and tried to rub it off with a rag. When I saw it, I knew it was my nightmare. I could feel my skin crawl. The hair on my head became spiky. My muscles stiffened up. Get out of here, I said to myself. Before you’re so paralyzed you fall over and can’t roll out of the way of a car. I stared up at that smudged face and felt my throat tighten. I jerked my head away, stood up on my pedals, and sped back through Castle Rock. I took a left on Highway 2-A and cut through the middle of the island, past acres of cane fields and row after row of royal palms. Wade Block, I thought, you’re scaring me to death.
